Actus Reus
by Stray Jaguar
Summary: When a pharmacy technician tries to locate Dr Ron Hatchet in her computer system's prescriber database, the search finds no results. It's amazing how asking one little routine question can alter the course of an entire lifetime...
1. First Contact

_June 25, 2013_...

Voices echo in the vaulted ceiling of the crowded courtroom. I can hear them with unusual clarity, every one of my senses on high alert. It is hard to judge how the trial is going. There are too many proponents for either side, and anyone who might give away a clue is keeping their face carefully blank.

I walk toward the witness stand, footsteps light against the polished wooden floor. My hands tremble, and I clench my fingers in an attempt to still them. The prosecuting attorney has just called me as a witness. We knew this was going to happen. I have been prepared for the ridiculous questions they may ask me, as well as the accusations that will forever mar my character. This is the case of the century. There is no room for error.

The judge bangs his gavel and calls for order. Conversation quickly dies down, and the prosecution saunters forward. He is cool, calm, and collected. His flint-gray eyes stare into mine, and I am instantly reminded of a predator. This is a man that is desperate to win. Losing, he thinks, is not an option.

I give my sworn oath to speak nothing but the truth, and the predator lunges.

"When did you first come in contact with nonbiological extraterrestrials commonly known as 'Autobots'?"

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

**O N E  
**

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

_July 7, 2010..._

People of all sizes and colors came through the pharmacy on a daily basis. Tranquility, while by no means large, was not small enough to provide the same loyal customers and patients day after day. The anonymity was almost a blessing; there were hardly any regulars to go the extra mile for. Nobody had to endure more than five minutes of pleasantries or small talk. I didn't have to smile more than strictly necessary.

Everything worked like a well-oiled machine, but that didn't stop the job from being interesting.

My first customer on Monday evening set the tone for the rest of the night. He was a short old fellow, hunched over, and relied on a wicked-looking cane to walk. I pulled my lips back in what was hopefully a polite smile and waited for him to reach the pharmacy. He plopped a huge Ziploc bag full of fluorescent orange vials onto the counter.

"Hi there," I said. "I take it you're wanting some medications refilled?"

Naturally, the man was deaf. I didn't give him the chance to tell me to speak up – I just did.

"Did you need all of these refilled?" I asked a little louder.

"No," he shook his head. His voice sounded rough, paper-thin.

"Which ones do you need?"

"These are for my wife," he replied, pushing the bag a little closer to me.

I had already noticed none of the vials had labels on them. All of them contained at least one or two unidentifiable pills, tablets and capsules alike. Hiding a grimace, I asked for his wife's birthday.

"May... no, March 15, 1957," he murmured.

"Mariam Wellsworth? Is that your wife?"

"No! It's Joyce Cartwright!" the man said as if personally affronted.

When the system finally managed to produce her profile ("It's J-O-I-C-E, and no, we do not have a 460 area code!"), it wasn't surprising to find her birthday really was in May, after all. With my smile becoming more forced by the second, I asked Mr Cartwright the question I had been dreading ever since I spotted his Ziploc bag: "Do you know the names of any of these medications? Do you know which ones she needs filled?"

With no small amount of effort, Mr Cartwright rifled through the bag with one shaky hand. He pulled out a single orange vial, dumped its contents into his palm, and held it up to the light. "She needs this one."

"Let me see if I can have the pharmacist identify this, okay? I will be right back," I promised.

The pill was a nondescript round tablet. There were few medications dispensed at our pharmacy that I could readily identify – Prevacid, just to name one example, was a memorable pink-and-black capsule. Too many round brown tablets existed for a mere technician like me to know each and every one. Thankfully, identifying pills was not in my job description.

A few minutes later, I knew the little tablet was called mirtazapine, and it was used to treat things like depression and anxiety. Mrs Cartwright, as disorganized as she appeared to be, seemed to be keeping up with her refills. Her profile showed the drug had been dispensed faithfully to her every thirty days for the past seven months. I assured her husband the prescription would be ready in about fifteen minutes, and he went to sit down in the waiting area.

The rest of the night went downhill from there.

I already explained Tranquility isn't exactly a huge town. Between us and our three competitors, our pharmacy wasn't nearly as busy as others. We had a morning rush, when everyone is in a hurry to get to work because they are running late – heaven forbid they leave their houses a few minutes earlier than usual, so they actually have _time _to stop at the pharmacy. The next busy time was after the regular business day ended. Lucky me, that was when my shift began.

It died down around dinner time on most nights. From six to eight o'clock, we generally had a lot of downtime to get things like cleaning and whatnot out of the way. It was a good system.

But on that night, the phone never stopped ringing. It felt like people were approaching the counter every five minutes. It was stressful enough with two other technicians and one pharmacist, but then the day tech left at five. The midshift technician left a little over an hour later, and the pharmacy only seemed to grow busier.

Scripts went from being done in fifteen minutes to sometimes taking a whole half-hour. People's moods went from pleasant to pissed in the blink of an eye. When someone gets angry at me because their script cannot be filled as quickly as they would like, every fiber of my being gets mad right back...

But all I can do is fake a smile and say, "I'm sorry, but we are very busy right now. We'll get it filled as quickly as possible." FYI, people – getting pissed off will not get prescriptions filled any faster.

So, we had a list of scripts to fill a mile long. There were seven people waiting inside the store, four would be back in approximately thirty minutes, and two needed to be verified with the clinic.

"Call and see who this doctor is," my pharmacist said, pointing to a script with unusually neat handwriting. It was written for a Samuel Witwicky, date of birth October 10, 1990. "I've never heard of a Dr Ron Hatchet before. He isn't in our system, and there's no DEA number on here."

The phone number was unfamiliar, but it was local. A quick search through the computer system confirmed what I had already been told; this doctor was not registered. I dialed it and was amazed when someone answered on the first ring.

"Yes?" It was a terse greeting. Strange, especially if this guy was manning the phones at an office or clinic. I almost felt bad for bothering the poor man, but darn it – I was busy, too. "Who is this, and how may I help you?"

After providing my name and pharmacy, I told him the problem. "We don't have a Dr Ron Hatchet in our system. I just need his DEA number, please."

The line went abruptly silent. Between stress and frustration, I was beginning to get a little annoyed with this man. I understood how busy doctor offices could get, but that was no reason to be rude. When the line picked back up again, I opened my mouth in preparation to give the inconsiderate man a piece of my mind –

He blurted out Dr Hatchet's number and then hung up on me.

I fumed, dial tone buzzing in my ear.

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

**to be continued...**

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

Interesting Stuff: This is an idea that popped into my head a few weeks ago and refused to leave. Since I have no inspiration to work on STM at the moment, I thought, _Why not? _Just in case anyone was wondering, two things: Sam's birthday really is October 10, 1990, and Tranquility's area code really is 460. I'll give you three guesses to figure out who Dr Ron Hatchet really is, and the first two don't count. ;)

Legal Stuff: First, I would like to say the standard disclaimer applies to the whole of this story. Secondly, none of the patients the main character mentions are real people. Any similarities are purely coincidental. Lastly, I am not a medical professional, so please do not take any advice my characters may give as reliable information.


	2. Sam Witwicky

_June 25, 2013..._

The man with flint-gray eyes gives me a satisfied smirk. Undoubtedly he thinks this is leverage against the Autobots, a line of thought I cannot blame him for. Society as a whole will find it strange, if not downright outrageous, that a sentient alien robot has been cleared to earn a degree in human medicine. I keep my expression neutral and maintain eye contact with the prosecutor.

A few people have already begun to murmur at the back of the courtroom. The whispers only increase as he poses his next question. "Did you ever process any more prescriptions from alias 'Ron Hatchet' – Autobot Ratchet – during your employment at that pharmacy?"

"No," I say shaking my head.

"Your honor, we have evidence – or a lack thereof – showing no other prescriptions were ever written before or since that night three years ago," the prosecutor says triumphantly as he turns on his heel, "and yet... Mr. Witwicky has numerous recorded injuries that should have required at the _very_ least a visit to the emergency room."

My stomach sinks. I know where he is trying to lead everyone.

"It seems strange that Autobot Ratchet is available to play doctor for anyone residing on Diego Garcia but has only written one prescription for the duration of his medical career," he continues. His eyes drift back to me as he casually returns to a standing position directly in front of my chair. The tone of his voice turns from thoughtful to innocent. "Can you explain that to me?"

Before I can open my mouth to say anything, one of the numerous lawyers working for the Autobots jumps to my defense. "Objection!" he barks, leaning over the table as if preparing to spring. "Speculation, your honor!"

"Sustained," the judge says in his gravelly voice.

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

**T W O**

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

I will never forget the week after Independence Day three years ago. It was a major turning point for me, the lone fork in the road that crossed the desert of my life. Before that fateful day when Judy Witwicky dropped off her son's prescription, I was just a statistic on a random census report: single, Caucasian, and made less than twenty grand a year. Had I been a person who made a ritual of watching the news every night, the name 'Witwicky' would have been instantly recognizable.

As the saying goes, _"Hindsight is always twenty-twenty."_

I went home that night without a single concern. Sam, his mother, and Ron Hatchet were the furthest things from my mind, even though no one returned to pick up his medication. Scripts getting left in the pharmacy were a more common occurrence than most people would think, but that is a topic for another time; I could rant all day about people not picking up their meds.

The apartment was dark and empty. Ashley – my roommate – was no doubt sleeping over at her boyfriend's place. I made a mental note to ask if a new roomie was going to be necessary. It was pointless for her to continue paying rent on an apartment she never lived in.

Dinner was a simple affair. Anything I cooked was passable at best. I left things like brownie baking to Ashley. Most meals were microwaveable, and there was always ramen or Kraft macaroni stocked in the kitchen cupboard. Although friends of ours thought it childish, I preferred shapes over traditional noodles. Lots of fruits, too – apples and bananas required no preparation.

I almost miss having to eat like a poor college student.

At two in the morning, I was dozing on the couch when Ashley stormed into the apartment. Dried tears trailed salty tracks down her powdered cheeks. Thankfully, she wasn't the type to wear mascara. I watched in bleary-eyed silence as she slammed her purse down on the table, jerked open the fridge, and guzzled a beer.

"Something wrong?" I asked dryly.

She turned bloodshot eyes in my vague direction and started bawling all over again. Her voice came out in a wobbly whimper. "He dumped me."

I carefully hid my glee and did my best to wear a somber face. "Oh, that's awful," I lied through my teeth. "I thought you two were really getting serious." Ashley was a damn good roommate. I was happy to keep her. "What was his excuse?"

Like a dutiful friend, I listened as she cried and yelled and cried some more. Heartache was no stranger to me; at that point in my life, I had sworn off any sort of romance. Admittedly, a small part of me was always jealous of her many relationships. It was that very same part that cheered each time she came home with news of a breakup. Years of practice made it easy to hide the joy I felt at my friend's misfortune.

"Just forget about him," I said an hour later. We were both sitting on the couch, a bowl of popcorn between us as we watched old films; _Terminator_, _The Lion King, _and _Pulp Fiction_. "As clichéd as this may sound, it's his loss."

Neither of us fell asleep until sunlight began to filter through the blinds. By the time I woke up that afternoon, Ashley had already left for work. Thursdays were my day off, which meant I got to lounge around all day in pajamas.

Life was boring. I was content with the same routine. Between the pharmacy and home, it seemed like there wasn't time for anything else. The only concerns were getting the bills paid on time and making sure the fridge was never empty. Looking back now – really examining how my life used to be – I realized how dull everything was, how unfathomable. I was selfish. Took everything for granted.

Everything started to change on the eighth of July, three years ago.

That was the day I officially met a Cybertronian.

Nothing makes a girl realize how insignificant her life is quite as well as giant alien robots – but I suppose I'm jumping ahead of the story.

I remember getting a call from the pharmacy. The evening technician was sick, and they needed someone to cover her shift. I went in to work that evening at five. Thankfully, things went much more smoothly than the previous night. Well... they went smoothly until Sam finally showed up for his prescription.

I didn't recognize him when he walked up to the counter and flashed a nervous grin. His face had been broadcast around the world a year beforehand, but I was never one to pay attention to television. To me, he was just another kid who might ask for Plan B.

"How may I help you?" I greeted him, stepping up to the register.

"I'm here to pick up my script," he replied. "The name's Sam Witwicky."

As soon as he gave his name, the incident with Dr. Hatchet rose to the front of my mind. Of course, I didn't mention it to Sam at the time. It would have been unprofessional. "Could I have you verify your address, please?"

A frown puckered his brow. He hesitated for a moment before rattling off the street.

"Do we have the correct address, or does it need to be updated...?"

"No, no," Sam said, "it's fine. I wasn't sure if I had my parents' house listed or..." He trailed off, and I didn't question it any further.

"It looks like this a new medication for you." I scanned the bar code at the top of the bag. There was no copy, but the system still needed to register the script was leaving the pharmacy. "Is that correct?"

"I don't even know what it is," he admitted.

"Looks like Dr. Hatchet prescribed Ondansetron. I'll have the pharmacist go over it with you."

He nodded, and I went to get my pharmacist. Technicians are not allowed to counsel patients on any medication. I couldn't even tell anyone to take Tylenol for their headache if someone asked for my opinion. Just because I was never allowed to say anything, however, does not mean I never paid attention. Working in the pharmacy was a wonderful learning experience.

Ondansetron was something called an antiemetic, the pharmacist told him. It was used to prevent nausea and vomiting in patients, especially those who were going through chemotherapy. It worked by blocking serotonin receptors. I already knew all of this, and it made me curious as to why a healthy looking guy like Sam would need a drug like that.

But the pharmacist didn't dig too deeply, and Sam never voiced any questions.

That should have been the end of my association with Samuel Witwicky. He walked away from the counter with a thoughtful expression bordering on troubled, but I didn't pay it much thought. If it wasn't for what happened next, I would still be a nobody pharmacy technician without a care in the world.

If it wasn't for Sam, I wouldn't be so wrapped up in the trial of the century right now.

He shattered a jarred candle. Customers broke things on a regular basis. It was natural for me to peer down the corner of aisle ten to see what the ruckus was all about. I didn't question it when I saw the boy stoop down, watched for the briefest of moments as he scrambled to sweep up the glass with a bare hand.

I went to the maintenance closet to get a broom and dust pan. The pharmacist told me to be careful as I walked down aisle ten. Six feet away from Sam, I watched as he scraped his palm on a sharp piece of glass.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" I asked. Blood began to drip onto the floor.

He jerked in surprise and swiveled to look at me. "I'm fine, it's okay – "

"But your hand!" I kneeled down and held out an open palm, the broom and dustpan forgotten. "Let me see."

Reluctance was written all over his face. Maybe it was to avoid drawing a crowd; maybe it was because I already saw the injury; whatever the case was, Sam slowly extended his hand for me to see. Blood was no longer oozing from the broken skin. Puzzlement turned to awe which morphed into horror as I watched the cut literally stitch itself shut.

"Please," he begged, "please, _please _don't freak out. Okay? Just stay calm."

Too shocked to do anything other than nod, I watched as his hand healed itself within a matter of seconds. The mended skin was flawless.

Sam picked up the broom and helped me clean the mess. Well, he did most of the cleaning. I was still flabbergasted. I don't think I moved until he asked about the garbage.

"What's your name?" he asked before I could walk away.

I fiddled with my name tag. "Alex."

"What time do you get off, Alex?" The question confused me, and he noticed. "I need to know. Please."

"Nine o'clock." A glance at my watch had me elaborating, "About forty-five minutes. But why...?"

"Meet me outside in the parking lot when you get off." His tone left no room for argument. I nodded dumbly.

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

The rest of the shift passed in a blur. Nothing about it sticks out. I was a little more than a warm body that night, and the pharmacist let me know it. I made an unprecedented amount of errors while typing scripts. When the clock struck nine, it was a blessing. I left the store without a backward glance.

Sam was easy to spot. He was leaning against the driver side door of one _fucking amazing _Camaro. Having grown up around a healthy appreciation for all things vehicular, I fell hard for the sleek design and glossy paint. The admiration must have shown on my expression; by the time I came to a stop in front of the car, Sam was grinning like an idiot.

"Sweet ride," I managed to tell him.

He patted the roof of the Camaro and gave it a fond smile. "Yeah, I like to think so."

"So... about your hand..."

All amusement vanished from his face. "We need to talk. Do you have anywhere you need to be right now?"

After much internal deliberation, I shook my head. "No. Today was supposed to be my day off."

"Good," Sam murmured. He opened his door – though now that I think about it, he never actually _opened _it – and paused as he moved to slide into the driver's seat. "Get in the car."

There should have been warning bells wailing inside my head. I'm not the type of girl who gets into cars with random strangers, but Sam felt safe. Innocent. He was just a kid, albeit one with a freakishly efficient immune system. Curiosity bit down and refused to let go. I told myself it was insane to pass up a ride in such a nice car.

I should have run, screaming in the opposite direction. Ah, the stupidity of youth.

He reached over and opened the passenger door. I marveled at the black leather interior before sliding carefully into the seat.

"Where are we going?" I asked as we pulled out of the parking space.

"To see a friend of mine," he replied innocently. "I think you've already sort of met him – remember Ron Hatchet?"

I gave him a sidelong glance. "I had to call the doctor on your script, yes..." I paused. "Surely you aren't saying that was the doctor I spoke with? He was incredibly rude."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, he can be a little rough around the edges."

"What does Dr. Hatchet have to do with anything? How do you even know I spoke with him?" I had a vague idea. Somehow, that doctor was responsible for whatever was wrong with Sam's hand. Maybe it was a rare disease that could be controlled with Ondansetron. For some reason, it was important. "He can't possibly be worried I'll break patient confidentiality..."

The radio suddenly erupted in static. Sam thumped a fist on the dashboard, and it went back to playing music. His lips stretched in a sheepish grin at my look of incredulity. "Radio's a little messed up," he said by way of explanation.

"This is about your hand, right?" I asked with a frown. "I've at least got that much right, haven't I?"

"Look, we'll be able to answer your questions when we get there," he said, turning his eyes back to the road. "I don't even have all the answers."

"Where's 'there'?" The speakers fizzed static again. It took more than a gentle thump to correct them. "You should really have that checked out."

"My girlfriend's a mechanic. She'll look at it when we get there."

That puzzled me more than anything. "Okay, what does your _girlfriend _have to do with this?"

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

Answers were not forthcoming for the duration of our miniature road trip. We rode the highway for nearly two hours and traveled at dangerously illegal speeds. The reckless part of me was thrilled. The responsible part was freaking out. Somewhere along the way, both sides managed to mellow out enough for sleep to claim me. If Sam was bothered by my impromptu catnap, he never showed it.

It never crossed my mind that he was a deranged murderer who owned a kickass car. It never occurred to me he might be driving out to the desert for a place to dump the body. I still look back on that night and kick myself for being so trusting.

The bright shine of a flashlight roused me out of sleep. Sam rolled down the windows, and a pair of decked out army guys asked us both for identification. My heart rate skyrocketed as I scrambled for my wallet. I shot Sam a venomous glare as the guards inspected our IDs before waving us forward.

We passed through a chain link gate, its top riddled with barbed wire. The Camaro proceeded across a huge, empty blacktop at an agonizingly slow pace. There were very few lights on the premises. It was difficult to make out any surroundings. A lone lamp illuminated the impossibly high doorway of one of those metal dome buildings.

"What are we doing here, Sam," I hissed as we stopped underneath the light.

"Trust me," he said in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring voice.

"I swear, if this is some sort of – of – "

The door began to slide away, and my jaw dropped.

A raised platform lined the walls of the warehouse. And when I say raised, I mean like twenty feet. Countless computer stations manned by military personnel created an ethereal blue glow in the gloom of night. I hardly noticed as the car idled forward, inch by inch, until it was fully inside the hanger. Steel ladders and portable staircases allowed people to climb down to the ground. There was a small cluster of rooms toward the very back, but their windows were dim.

"Where are we?" I whispered.

Vehicles of every shape and size surrounded us. This was a grease monkey's wet dream. There were a trio of motorcycles, a silver Corvette, the biggest truck I'd ever laid eyes on, a blue Volt – and than there was the tricked out semi. I swear it took me five full minutes to tear my eyes away from that one.

I did not notice the police officer until he wrapped his knuckles on the windshield. The stony look on his face made me shrink down in the seat. I was tempted to lock the door, but it would have done little good – Sam was opening the window.

"Explain yourself, Samuel Witwicky," the officer growled. Despite his obvious annoyance, his face was void of all emotion. It was odd how someone could sound so angry and yet look so calm.

"Chill out, Prowl," Sam scoffed. "I cleared it with Optimus."

"Even so," he nodded to me, "your government is most displeased."

"They'll have to chill, too."

We drove further into the hanger, closer to the menagerie of vehicles before coming to a complete halt. Taking my cue from Sam, I stepped out of the Camaro on unsteady feet. A look around showed the police officer had vanished. When no other government officials presented themselves, I whirled around and jabbed an accusing finger at Sam.

"Tell me what's going on, _right now_, or so help me God – "

He held up his hands like there was a gun in his face. "Easy, easy. Look, you're not in trouble. Nothing is wrong. I know you're freaked out – if I saw what you saw, I'd be freaked out – but trust me, you aren't in trouble. Okay?"

"I don't even know _what_ I saw!" I said in exasperation. "You won't explain!"

"It's complicated," Sam sighed. "I don't know what to tell you. I can't tell you anything else. I'm sorry."

My hands flung themselves into the air on their own accord. "I saw the glass cut your hand. There was _blood_. The next thing I know, it's like you were never even hurt in the first place. You can't explain that?"

"Sam can't," a new voice cut in, "but I can."

Everyone on the platform seemed to be minding their own business, completely tuned into their stations. There was no one else on the main floor except for Sam and me. I turned in circles, confused about where the voice had come from. The cop from earlier was nowhere to be seen.

"Who said that?" I asked, feeling stupid.

There were a series of clicks and whirs. I was looking in the opposite direction when Optimus Prime first revealed himself. It wasn't until I turned around to find the source of strange noises did I realize the semi looked a little funky. I watched, first in confusion and then shock, as an intricate series of transformations changed the truck from mere vehicle to mechanical monster.

Transformations are amazing each and every time I see them. I could watch any one of my Cybertronian friends transform a million times and never grow tired of it. The first time, however, was terrifying.

"Trucks aren't supposed to do that," I whispered to Sam, too frightened to speak directly to the three-story-tall machine.

"This one does," he replied smugly.

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

Stuff: MONSTER thank you to Razorgaze, talented author and beta, who was kind enough to look over this for me before I posted it. Be thankful -- reading this would be much more painful without her.

And of course I would like to thank all two hundred of you who took a peek at the first chapter. BIG thank you to the six people who reviewed; I won't know what I'm doing wrong (or right) unless you tell me!


	3. Optimus Prime

_June 25, 2013..._

When an objection is sustained, the offending words are to be stricken from the record. However, human minds are not impervious to independent thought; whatever was said sticks in the minds of the jury and as well as the judge, because even a man such as he is merely human. I know this as well as the prosecutor does, and we are both extremely aware of the effect his non-existent speculation is having on the courtroom.

"Let me phrase it this way, then," he continues, feathers unruffled. He finally asks the question he has meant to pose all along: "Have you ever witnessed Autobot Ratchet use illegal methods to heal a human -- any method unapproved by the FDA?" The other way simply made a bigger impact.

I give my answer without hesitation. "No."

He would have been better off asking if Ratchet _had _ever used illegal methods to heal people.

The man changes tactics and decides to move forward in subject matter. "When did you first become aware of the classified international program 'Nonbiological Extraterrestrial Species Team', also known as NEST?"

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

**T H R E E**

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

_July 8, 2010..._

"Greetings, Alexis Reed," the robot said in a soothing bass. "I am Optimus Prime. It appears you have some questions about Sam's unique condition."

It was overwhelming, how precise and to the point it -- he -- was. I was still trying to come to terms with the fact that cars could unfold into strange bipedal... _things_. How it -- he -- expected me to overcome the terrible shock so quickly was unimaginable. The only thing my brain could manage was nodding. Speech was temporarily unavailable.

"Easy, big guy," Sam said to Optimus, placing a tentative hand on my shoulder. "Hey, Alex, are you okay?"

Its -- his -- blue helmet almost scraped the ceiling. Every so often the metal plating surrounding its eyes would shutter in a motion reminiscent of blinking. It made him seem marginally less frightening, so I gathered what little courage I possessed and spoke. "Yeah... yeah, I'm fine. Just a little surprised."

Optimus chuckled, and the sound carried throughout the hangar. "It is not an unusual reaction to our presence."

"How many people know about you?" The query escaped before I could stop.

"Before we get into all that," Sam jumped in, "why don't we sit down and talk about what exactly they are and why they're here?" He looked up at Optimus for approval, which the giant granted with a single nod.

"Okay," I agreed.

A few feet away, a man winked into existence -- as in, one moment the space was empty, the next second it wasn't. His form flickered during a few brief heartbeats of stunned silence. I jerked involuntarily and clamped down on the urge to scream. Adrenalin rocketed through my veins before I had the chance to rationalize what my eyes were seeing.

"Follow me, please," the man said with Optimus' voice.

I fell into step behind him -- _it's a fucking hologram_, my frantic mind told me -- and Sam walked beside me. Our path wove between the vehicles, and I eyed each one with suspicion as we passed. We walked calmly passed grunts and men in expensive suits, people who acted as though it were completely natural for three civilians to walk wherever they pleased.

Human-Optimus led us into the second of several empty rooms at the back of the hangar. To my great wonder and curiosity, he not only opened the door but also turned on the light. According to popular science fiction, holograms were incapable of interacting with the environment around them. The mystery of how it was done called to me like a good Sudoku puzzle.

The room was sparse, occupied only by an uncomfortable card table set and a length of countertop with a microwave and coffee machine. A trash can sat in the corner, tucked in the narrow space behind the door. The walls were a grimy color that must have once been white.

"Sit," Optimus instructed. "Do you require any sustenance before we begin? Coffee, perhaps?"

"No," Sam and I responded simultaneously.

We sat down next to each other, while Optimus claimed the seat directly opposite to me. His eyes, an unnatural blue, stared unblinking into mine. Unnerved by his gaze, I looked away within seconds.

A pair of manila folders materialized between his hands. Written in print too neat to be human were our full names. He opened Sam's file first, stared at it for a few moments, and then opened mine. His eyes, though directed at the pages, never moved. "What is your knowledge of Sam's condition, Alexis?"

I fidgeted with the cuff of my shirt before answering. "He cut his hand on glass. I saw the blood. But when I tried to... help, to look at his cut... it was gone. Not even a scratch." I dared a glance into Human-Optimus' eyes. "It was like something out of a sci-fi movie. He has some weird super powers or something."

Sam stayed quiet. Not even a hint of a smile cracked the solemn look on his face. Whatever I had stumbled into, it was too big for even a kid to joke about. Sentient robots did not introduce themselves to people willy-nilly. The sheer magnitude of trust being placed in me was sobering.

Optimus ran a hand over his face and sighed, despite breathing not being a requirement for him. "Before I explain, I must impress upon you how serious our situation is. Your government has been very strict; one of their conditions for giving my people asylum is that our existence remains secret from the civilian population, a rule that has obviously been violated tonight."

"Am I going to get you in trouble?" I asked, both concerned and confused.

A wry smile appeared abruptly on the hologram. "No. We have managed to avoid prosecution, though there are a few stipulations."

"Right, well, before we get into the stipulations," I waved my hands dismissively, "back up and explain to me what exactly is going on. Sam here takes me to this weird military place, shows me some kickass cars, and then 'Oh, sorry Alex, did I mention they're all robots?' What the hell!"

And so he told me everything.

It was almost too much information to take in, but all I could do was sit and listen, enraptured by his words. There was war being waged, and it was older than humanity itself. Too much of a paranoid pessimist to take everything at face value, I tried to ignore the negative spin both Optimus and Sam put on Decepticons -- there were two sides to every story, and even if they were rotten bastards, they had a reason for being that way.

Sam was a hero. He had saved the planet not once, but twice -- and he had done it at the cost of his own life. It was hard to tell if he was stupid, reckless, or incredibly brave. Perhaps it was a mixture of all three.

The government was hesitant to reveal the existence of aliens. An international effort between several countries was the only thing that had kept the reality from the people of Earth when a Decepticon leader had broadcasted himself on live television for the whole world to see.

NEST was a program promoting good faith between Autobots and humans, enabling them to work together against Decepticon forces. Sam and his girlfriend were unofficial ambassadors for Optimus and his team.

The most shocking thing of all?

Sam was a Prime.

And he was immortal.

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

to be continued...

- o - o - o - o - o - o - o -

Stuff: Please don't kill me for taking so long to update. I wrestled with this chapter for so long, and got so frustrated... I'm still not happy with it. Don't be surprised if I eventually rewrite it. This is the gist of what's happening, though. In the interst of time, this wasn't beta'ed. My deepest apologies for the wait.


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